


The Bramble Briar and The Rose Tree

by lesliedraws_lilithcurses



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cover Art, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Inspired by Music, Love Confessions, M/M, Musical References, Mutual Pining, Romance, but they manage!, lot of flowers, music is used to confess their love, post serie, references to Tristan and Yseult, struggle with expressing their feelings, the first chapter is set in france on a warm august day, yseult is a french black singer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:15:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29594055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesliedraws_lilithcurses/pseuds/lesliedraws_lilithcurses
Summary: Aziraphale did have to sort out a few things in the shop.But mostly his feelings, if he had to be honest.For a few centuries now, he'd felt like he'd been sitting on his very own personal Pandora box that he- oh... had been dreading to open. The thing was that that box was trashing now. Like a suitcase overstuffed with wild, feral cardigan jumpers.And truth be told, it was hard to carry on pretending day in day out that whatever existed between him and Crowley was only air.It happened (because God had a sick sense of humour) that the song ‘Bad Boy’ by Yseult was playing in Aziraphale’s shop.While listening to the first notes, he caught himself remembering Crowley’s visit earlier today (or was it yesterday already? Summer nights pass so quickly…)Anyway, he was already being lulled by Yseult’s enthralling voice. She was soothing, but she also knew exactly where to push to make your heart hurt like Hell. And the angel loved it...Crowley’s figure entered the shop in front of his mind’s eyes.[Quelqu'un frappe à ma porte]Someone’s knocking at my door[Je sens mon pouls qui s'accélère]I feel my pulse accelerating[Le temps s'arrête]Time's stopping
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	1. The Smell of Roses' Petals in the Warm Air

**Author's Note:**

> To my partner Tessa, whom I love so much that I am often at a loss for words when I want to express all of my feelings for her. I keep trying.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'It is said that both lovers were buried close to each other and that a bramble briar grew from Tristan’s grave, growing so much that it formed a bower and reached to Yseult’s tomb where it rooted itself. People tried to cut it out several times, but it kept growing again and again, intertwining both graves.  
> Another version says that a rose tree also grew from Yseult’s grave, and that both plants’ branches and roots intertwined to form but one legendary tree.'

‘Oh my.’

The angel was feeling like his heart was about to jump out of his throat, and not necessarily through his lips.  
As alarming as this may sound to the reader, it translated mainly by his corporeal form to slightly wriggle on the spot. It was known for a fact that Aziraphale wriggled a lot, whether it was caused by sheer joy or dreadful anxiousness. To this day, his wriggling skills were still unmatched. The thing was, he had had thousands of years to practice it.  
Anyway... And oh, his lips were also currently quite dry, and for some reason his breath was short and shallow.

Why so? That’s for the reader to discover in the story that follows.

* * *

So. Crowley was quite busy freelancing on its own since his and Aziraphale’s last encounter with the legions of Heaven and Hell. It actually kind of left them free to organize their own ‘me-time’ however they wanted to. Yes. Let’s put it this way.

And really, the bits of temptations that the demon was working on were all about giving the hesitating sinner that extra little nudge to indulge in whatever vice it was that they liked, and also encouraging new rock and roll and heavy metal productions.  
My. Did he love Gojira and, to be honest, one of his all time favorites (also for their sense of style) was Alice Cooper. What a success this one was. A personal satisfaction.  
He never understood what people found in Marilyn Manson though. That kind of happened on its own.

Oh but otherwise he loved music in general. Particularly since Jazz and Blues spread at the turn of the last century. The nineteen hundreds had been fantastic music wise (one of the only things you could salvage from this damned century really). And yet, there were so many new genres to be created, so many more voices to discover, so many stories to be sung and then listened to…

This was one of the reasons why he never really understood why Aziraphale kept sticking to classical music. No but really. That’s just being obtuse at that point.

They had their ‘musical’ evenings though.  
Oh, the demon just loved these nights when Aziraphale actually indulged him by listening to his latest ‘doings’ (ie. musicians’ sudden and unexplainable inspirations leading to interesting musical creations) or simply discoveries. Crowley knew heavy metal was not Aziraphale’s cup of tea for obvious reasons, so he presented him carefully curated musical works.  
Aziraphale always seemed to enjoy these evenings as well (what Crowley did not know is that the angel LOVED and cherished these moments, even though he did not always ‘connect’ with the music. He appreciated the craftsmanship though. Or craftswomanship when that was the case. More often than not actually as Crowley seemed to prefer women artists.)

Crowley was remembering fondly how much Aziraphale had loved Hozier. The demon had offered him his CDs after one of their musical sessions (yes, Aziraphale has an old CD player from the early 2000s in the shop) and the angel had kept listening to the Irish artist at all hours of the day. But only on days when he felt particularly in love with the world. Music had this sacred dimension for him. Not in the religious sense mind you. It was more serious than that.

And when Crowley had had the chance to enter the shop one day when one of those precious moments occurred, he had felt very much in love with his angel.

Not that he felt any different the rest of the time. But wow. Aziraphale was breathtakingly beautiful when he swayed to the melody, and sometimes even danced thinking that no one was watching him. On some occasions, Aziraphale’s eyes even welled-up with emotions.

The thing is, they both had learned to feel all sorts of feelings throughout their millennia spent on Earth. Can you imagine just for a minute how much they needed regular cathartic releases to deal with said feelings and just not end up crushed by their weight?  
Music, Crowley thought, and books of course, were Aziraphale’s keys to a more serene experience of Life on Earth. He was glad and proud to provide for his angel in this regard.  
He’d come to understand that the angel had had a hard time expressing emotions since. Well. Forever. But that did not mean that Aziraphale didn’t feel all of them acutely. He was, you could say, a hypersensitive angel that needed to be emotionally checked upon.

Crowley went back to the present moment as a particularly heavy summer shower had started falling on the windshield of the Bentley all of a sudden.

It was a warm August day, full of scents, and he was driving on a road heading to, as it appeared, Montfort-l’Amaury, a timeless village lost in the French countryside not far off from Versailles.  
He had just finished causing havoc within one of the most influential catholic families from the aforementioned city (one of the extreme ones, you know, standing against safe abortions, persons of color, immigrants, the LGBTQIA+ community, general reason, etc.)

He had just given enough advice to Tristan, the eldest grandson of an impressive string of children, to live his pansexuality proudly and openly.  
Crowley just hated when people felt miserable. If he had been a ‘traditional’ demon, he would have encouraged the internalization of self hatred that had started to develop within the young man.  
But he was not, thank you very much. And he had whispered into Tristan’s ear to call Blandine, the lovely trans woman he loved, and to admit all of his feelings for her.

Pissing off the uptight and homophobic family of Tristan was just a bonus, and maybe younger cousins and siblings of his would later draw positive inspiration from him that would then allow them to find their own courage in living the life they’ll truly want to live in turn.

Crowley had made sure the couple would always be well surrounded as well as supported, and would never feel alone. He felt responsible for all lovers daring to live their love to the fullest.  
He envied them. But he was their secret gardian non-angel nonetheless. So no touchy, people.

Well. There he had arrived apparently. Why was he here? No particular reason really, it seemed like a good idea to visit a former place he visited in the past, and Versailles was overrated anyway. He decided to park right by the medieval cemetery’s western wall. He remembered that Charles Aznavour was buried here.  
He thought about Aziraphale once more, who quite liked some of the songs the French-Armenian singer released in the 60s’ and 70s’.

The rain was carrying on, quite heavy still. He watched from inside the car a couple running for shelter while laughing under the warm drops, all dressed in creamy colors and light fabrics.

He decided to get out of the car since he did not so much mind the rain as long as it was warm.  
A feeling of well being washed over him as soon as he closed the cars’ door behind him and stood straight up, stretching his muscles. He paused, back lying against the car and face turned upward to the sky.  
The air smelt like hot stones and dust warmed by the sun, then drenched by water. Do you know that smell?  
The main streets of the city centers were almost all paved. It smelt divine, it smelt. True? It was an anchor into an exquisite moment.

Crowley opened his eyes and decided that, since he had all the rest of the afternoon to himself (anyway, most of his time was to himself now, even though he’d rather share said time with his angel) he’d make the best of it by starting to lose himself in this pleasant place that he did not visit for quite some time.

Yes... Now that he was thinking about it he remembered more clearly that he happened to pass by in the surroundings sometimes during the Hundred Years’ War. The English had destroyed the castle that used to stand on the hilltop. What a shame he’d thought at the time. It was a pretty decent castle.

He went down rue Amaury and turned right on the rue de Paris. Funny, he thought, how most cities around Paris had a street named rue de Paris. If you followed their general direction you’d assuredly reach the capital city at some point. Pretty handy when you needed to find your way back to the Ville Lumière without a map.

He happened to pass in front of a flower shop named Le bouquet de Carole. A warm wave of roses' petals' scent rushed to his face. The feeling of it made him almost tumble with pleasure. The rain and warm air had just transformed the outdoor flower stalls into a huge pot-pourri, spreading a floral scent across the whole street.  
He looked at the potted plants and bouquets of flowers showcased in front of him. Roses, for sure, but also a lovely Mexican orange tree, some carnations, evening primroses, a potted lavender, Agapanthuses, lilies, daylilies…  
He was lost in a sweet, quiet world of colors and perfumes when he heard it. A song from the shop’s speakers.

It was not an experience he’d encountered a lot, even having lived an immortal life and all, but he felt that his world tipped just so. You know, it may not seem like it at first glance, but it definitely did.

He’d never heard anything like this before and it hit him like lightning. He realized that he couldn’t really breathe normally for a few seconds. Not that he needed to but he certainly felt like he needed to right now. It was a raw feeling, a bit tricky to process.  
The voice he heard, it was so soft, yet so powerful. He wondered if the singer was in pain? If she was experiencing so much joy that it hurt? If she was simply living all she had to live to the fullest? Battling your way through this complex Life filled with all these complexed and contrary emotions like pain and joy and sadness and utter happiness… Was it a synthesis of what’s Life about?

The artist also seemed to mix the profane and the sacred. And wow. She made it sound Beautiful. Just as it should be. Crowley did not understand all of what she said since his French was a bit rusty since his time spent with the libertins in the seventeen hundreds, but he knew she was speaking of Beauty.

> _Je ressens dans mon corps, dans ma tête  
> _ _Que j’ai toujours un bail pour toi_

Much to his embarrassment, he felt his eyes well-up a little. Maybe it was tiredness, or the dust? But he was simultaneously also feeling very relieved to welcome a feeling he kind of needed to let go of a little. Like an emotion that he did not realize was pulling on a mental leash for far too long. Anyway, his throat constricted a little but that was ok.

> _Je le sens dans mon cœur, dans mes veines  
> _ _Que j’ai toujours un bail pour toi_

‘ _Bonjour_ ’ he was slightly startled by the soft voice coming from the direction of the shops’ door. He saw a woman in her thirties looking at him with kind eyes behind golden rimmed glasses, and a sweet smile. She looked like a flower, Crowley thought, without really knowing from where this surprising comparison came from.

‘Hello, erh... I guess I got lost in the contemplation of your flowers. And- Sorry to ask you that but, would you happen to know who is singing this song?’ He asked as the last notes of said song were playing from the shop’s speakers.

‘Oh yes of course. It is Yseult. I am very fond of her, she has such a beautiful voice, don’t you think?’

‘Yeah, I do,’ the demon answered, a tone barely above a breath, ‘a pretty amazing one actually. How come I never came across her before?’ He asked this question aloud more to himself than to the florist.

Anyway, the lady added ‘And she’s such a beautiful role model. She’s a talented French black woman promoting self-acceptance and just making the world a more beautiful place.’ She smiled an even softer smile (if that was possible) ‘Well, the last part is only my opinion.’  
Then she said ‘If you’d like to look it up later, this song is named Indélébile.’

‘Thank you very much. Yseult, you say?’

‘Yes, quite an unusual name actually, but so pretty. It’s a very ancient one.’

‘From Tristan and Yseult’

‘Yes! Such as sad story though’

‘Well, if you’d like my opinion, still less sad than the real story. Those guys were twisted. Such a waste.’

The florist was polite enough not to ask about what he meant.

‘Talking about twist,’ she smartly picked up on Crowley’s last words ‘I quite like the twist the French gave to their legend.’

‘Ah yes? I think I’ve never heard about it. I thought the story ended with Tristan's death and Yseult dying of sorrow over his corpse.’

‘Well, I guess we couldn’t do with that, far too sad and not romantic enough. No. It is said that both lovers were buried close to each other and that a bramble briar grew from Tristan’s grave, growing so much that it formed a bower and reached to Yseult’s tomb where it rooted itself. People tried to cut it out several times, but it kept growing again and again, intertwining both graves.  
Another version says that a rose tree also grew from Yseult’s grave, and that both plants’ branches and roots intertwined to form but one legendary tree.’

‘That’s…’ Crowley was actually at a loss for words. ‘That’s lovely.’

‘Isn’t it? Love enduring beyond death, however terrible this one was.’

A comfortable silence fell between them as they listened to the rain slowing down on the awning and pavement.

‘Are you a plant lover yourself?’ She asked.

‘Well,’ Crowley said. ‘Yeah, you could say that. I have a fair number of plants in my flat that I am quite proud of’ (that would not be a comment he would have made in front of them though, they would end up thinking he was becoming soft).

‘Really! What sort?’

Crowley gave her an enthusiastic description of each and every single plant he had, and a passionate discussion ensued with the florist.

She finally said ‘well, I have a lovely potted monstera plant that I am absolutely fond of. She (yes, it is a she) is my pet really. Or maybe I am hers.’ She added pensively. Crowley laughed at that.

‘Would you like to have a look at her? She’s by the counter!’

’Sure!’ He answered.

45 minutes later, Crowley exited the shop with a tiny monstera cutting (respectfully taken by the florist from the plant after having asked for its permission) that he was already looking forward to pampering and seeing grow strong, green and healthy.  
Carole (of course the florist’s name was Carole) had been so kind that he did not know how to thank her at the time. So he bought a luscious bouquet of roses, actually made of 3 different bouquets. They smelled divine.

Carole had given him a tip about how to preserve the flowers even after they had wilted.

‘Dry them’ she had said. ‘It’s not something that people tend to do anymore, but dried flowers are beautiful. And I always thought that it was a shame to just bin flowers once they had wilted. Just hang them upside down in a dry and dark place for a couple of days. A closet will do. Plus, your clothes will smell divine.’ She had given this last advice with a knowing smile.

Before getting back to the car, Crowley stopped at a boulangerie to pick up a few pâtisseries. He always did that for Aziraphale. He wasn’t even thinking about it anymore after centuries of this routine, it kind of became a second nature to him.

He asked an impressed boulangère (she was impressed by the bouquet) the traditional croissants and pains au chocolat, and added an éclair au café, a small Paris-Brest, a religieuse au chocolat, a meringue, and a small tarte Bourdaloue (Aziraphale actually helped creating this one. He kind of inspired a boulanger whose shop was located rue Bourdaloue in Paris back in the 18th century. The name just stayed.)

A big bouquet in one hand and a few packages full of cakes in the other, Crowley headed back to the Bentley before ‘miracling’ cakes, flowers, and car, the whole shebang really, back in London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am maintaining the suspense a bit regarding Yseult's song. I will link all of them in the third chapter and will translate all the lyrics that I am quoting in this story. Worry not :)


	2. Bigger Miracles Had Happened Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley realized that he may have been staring at Aziraphale more than he intended to as he became very much aware that Aziraphale was gently staring back, a soft smile on his lips.
> 
> Crowley had not been aware that music was softly playing in the background. Aziraphale must have switched it on at some point with a distant twitch of his fingers.  
> They both enjoyed the moment, revelling in the sultry summer dusk light bathing the room, the scent of the roses, and the warmth of the tea.
> 
> Then Crowley realized he was listening to Yseult’s voice again. The singer he heard earlier today in the flower shop, but a different song this time. He looked at Aziraphale, who raised two questioning eyebrows from behind his cup from which he was currently taking a few sips. 
> 
> Crowley pointed in the direction of the sound without taking his eyes off Aziraphale.  
> ‘I know this.’

After having stopped at his flat in order to nicely install the monstera cutting into a small vase and ask the other plants to be nice to her (yes, she would be a her), Crowley left for Aziraphale’s shop.

It had only been three days, but he’d missed the angel an awful lot. Really. And anyway, even after 5 minutes he missed Aziraphale already. He was not sure if he could wean himself off his dependence to his angel. He was not sure if he wanted to either.

The demon entered the shop, arms full of roses and pastries.  
He’d picked the roses back at the flower shop because of Carole’s story about Tristan and Yseult’s graves. It had left a deep impression on him. He had liked this ending of the legend very much, also because, even if it made him realize that Love should not be wasted away, it gave him hope that it would always find a way to reach its recipient regardless of Death.

‘Crowley my dear!’ Said a familiar, adored voice, soon followed by an equally adored face. ‘It is so nice to see y-‘

Words failed Aziraphale when he saw the gigantic bouquet of roses in Crowley’s arms.

‘Oh my, what beautiful flowers.’ Aziraphale got closer and soon their perfume hit him. ‘And they smell marvellous!’

‘Well, I hope! Here angel, they’re for you.’

‘For me?’ Aziraphale was surprised, and very much touched by the attention.  
‘Well thank you very much my dear! I simply love them! I think I have one or two cristal Victorian vases here somewhere in the shop…’

There was no need to look for them really as Crowley miracled a gorgeous cristal Lalique vase enameled with cherry blossoms.

‘Really’ said Aziraphale fondly, but he went to fill the vase with water and prepare the flowers to put them in it.

‘So, to what do I owe this gift for?’

‘Oh, I happened to have a chat with a florist in France this afternoon and I just thought you might like them.’

‘Really? Was it a lovely day?’

‘It was. Very lovely’.

When Aziraphale went back with the vase and the flowers to the front shop, he did not see right away that Crowley had closed for the day for him, prepared two cups and plates, miracled tea and unpacked the pastries. This mostly being due to the fact that the roses blocked most of his view.

Once they were laid on the table, Aziraphale was agreeably presented with a lovely vision of pastries and tea and Crowley.

‘Crowley!’ Aziraphale was amazed by all the goodness presented on the table (and standing next to it). ‘We don’t see each other in 3 days and you spoil me.’  
A little pause, for the sake of principle, and he added ‘Are you trying to tempt me?’

‘Me?’ Answered a falsely outraged Crowley ‘I don’t know what you’re on about. Here, have some tarte Bourdaloue.’

‘Oh you did get me one, thank you!’

After eating a few more pastries (on Aziraphale’s side), drinking some more tea, and exchanging sweet nothings that they loved to share, notably some fresher topics about his day in France, Crowley was reminded of the discussion he had with the florist.

‘Aziraphale…’

The angel stopped, a spoon between his lips that he quickly licked clean. Crowley tried not to notice.

‘Yes?’

‘Have you ever read about the story of Tristan and Yseult, I mean, about the, you know, the alternate endings.’

‘The alternate endings?’

‘Yes, I figured that since you always had all sorts of old books around, you might have heard about it.’

‘I remember the legend, also because, as yourself, I was there before it became one.’ There was a very sad expression on Aziraphale’s face now. ‘What a waste… All this Love, wasted away…’

Crowley’s heart ached a little as well. Love wasted away rang too close to home for him.

‘Well,’ Crowley said to give the angel an occasion to get away from those sad thoughts, ‘I learned from a friend today about the endings the French wrote about them.’

And the demon told Aziraphale all about it. He saw how the angel melted at his word, and how he regained some, if not all, of his cheerfulness. Crowley could not miss how Aziraphale’s eyes were drawn to the enormous bouquet of roses standing between them.

Like a… an elephant in the room?

‘These are lovely additions to the legend. Thank you for sharing them with me, I did not know at all about them.’

‘Do you think…’ started Crowley, ‘do you think it could have been true?’

Aziraphale barely thought about it before answering ‘Yes. Yes, I do. At least we both know that bigger miracles than this one happened before, and after. And those two, well, they truly loved each other. It’s really too sad that they somehow got lost in grief and resentment at some point. Anyway, I’ll hold to this ending because it makes this whole tragedy less wrenching. There is something… soothing about it. Knowing that they found each other back after- you know?  
That their souls reached out for each other again. That their Love could not possibly die.’

Crowley knew exactly what he meant. And at this point, he tried not to speak by fear of being betrayed by a certain unsteadiness in his voice.

Both of them had feared the end of the world a few months back. They’d been scared to see their home disappear. But mostly, they had been terrified at the mere idea of losing each other.  
The both of them, without telling the other, had feared the exact same thing.

When Aziraphale had disappeared in the burning book shop… Crowley thought he couldn’t make it anymore. He came to the hard realization that, and even though he suspected it before, he could not make it alone in this world anymore without his angel. Be it ending or not.

And when Aziraphale’s (soul?) reached out to him in the coffee shop. He’d cried. At this moment he’d promised Her that he would not take any more moments spent in the company of his angel for granted.

Crowley realized that he may have been staring at Aziraphale more than he intended to as he became very much aware that Aziraphale was gently staring back, a soft smile on his lips.

Crowley had not been aware that music was softly playing in the background. Aziraphale must have switched it on at some point with a distant twitch of his fingers.  
They both enjoyed the moment, reveling in the sultry summer dusk light bathing the room, in the scent of the roses, and the warmth of the tea.

Then Crowley realized he was listening to Yseult’s voice again, the singer he heard earlier today in the flower shop but it was a different song this time. He looked at Aziraphale, who raised two eyebrows from behind his cup from which he was currently taking a few sips.

Crowley pointed in the direction of the sound without taking his eyes off Aziraphale.  
‘I know this.’

‘You do?’

‘Yes, I- Actually I heard her for the first time today. I thought she was pretty fantastic!’

The song that was playing gave way to another, the one he heard earlier today this time.  
What was the name already?

‘This one’s… Indelible? Indé- indélébile!’

Aziraphale smiled a softer smile still.

‘It is.’

‘Wait. You know her.’ Crowley realized.  
‘I’m gutted. You? Know her?’

‘Well, I do not see why it is so surprising’ answered Aziraphale.

‘It is, because I am the one always introducing you to new artists and musics and-‘

Then it dawned on him. ‘Oh. You made her.’

Aziraphale answered ‘I didn’t ‘make’ her, how could have I made her? She’s talented enough to make herself.’

That, admitted Crowley, seemed to be true. But Aziraphale kind of admitted without admitting that he, at least, might’ve ‘influenced’ her.

‘Did you inspire her?’ Aziraphale took another sip of his tea. ‘You did. Obviously, she’s one of yours.’

‘She’s no one.’ Answered Aziraphale. ‘She’s a marvel on her own. And Up There has nothing to do with her. They would have ruined her, made her insipid.’ There it was again, an expression of sadness on Aziraphale’s face. Crowley wondered how many artists did Heaven ruin to provoke such a response from the angel.

It was known for a fact, at least between the two of them, that what made artists 'artists’ was that they were among the most humans of humans. Heaven and Hell has never had anything to do with it. They didn’t know a thing about Art. They haven’t invented it. Humans had. And that’s why Aziraphale and Crowley enjoyed it so very much.

‘But-‘ Still, Crowley was sure that Aziraphale had something to do with it. Particularly in the way he appeared to try to avoid the subject.

‘My dear,’ said Aziraphale. ‘I am so very sorry but I just remembered that I need to sort out a few things in the shop.’

Crowley raised an eyebrow above his glasses. ‘Really? You’re doing that to me?’

Crowley was surprised at being shown the way out, and a bit sad about it. Aziraphale realized that, and added softly ‘Thank you ever so much, my dear, for the cakes. And the flowers.’ He added only after a small moment. ‘I-‘ he seemed to look for the right words. ‘Would you be up for dinner tomorrow evening?’ He said ‘To make it up.’

Crowley felt a bit comforted by this proposal and by the angel’s smile.  
He gave in. ‘Of course Angel, I’ll meet you there.’

They silently stood up and Crowley went to the door, closely followed by Aziraphale.  
The silence was heavy with unsaid declarations.

‘I’ll pick you up at 7 then?’ Asked Crowley, a hand over the handle.  
‘That would be lovely my dear’ answered Aziraphale with a smile.

Crowley exited and none of them added another word.

Aziraphale stood by the door a moment, watching the demon walk away in the direction of the Bentley.

‘Until tomorrow, then, my dear.’  
  


* * *

When Crowley came back to his flat, it'd seemed darker and emptier than usual.   
  
Thankfully, he could go back to admiring his little growing monstera which gave him a surprisingly big about of comfort. 

But soon his thought brought him back to his angel.  
He knew that Aziraphale had some difficulties, if not opening himself-

No. But who was he kidding? Crowley sighed. Aziraphale definitely had some issues opening himself. The demon wasn't even sure the angel opened to _himself_ first. 

Crowley could not say if Aziraphale liked him even a small 1% of the total amount of love he felt for his angel. Which, when you knew how much the demon loved Aziraphale, already represented a big deal of passion.  
  
But the thing was that the angel hardly made it easy to read into any of his feelings openly and clearly. As in an open book you know. The guy had spent enough time around them you’d think he’d learnt from them.  
  
Oh, don't be mistaken. Aziraphale was far from being a cold being, on the contrary! He loved everything and almost everyone. So much that it was actually quite difficult to say for sure when, and if, one thing or one person outweighed the angel's love for the rest of almost everything else that existed.

Of course, thought Crowley, there were all those unmistakable kind gestures, sweet attentions as well as lovely moments that slowly brought them closer and closer to one another throughout their shared centuries on Earth. But the thing was that Aziraphale always managed to keep it all ‘on the edge of a knife’. ie. He always managed to maddeningly remain friendly-enough-but-not-too-much so that Crowley ended up simply being satisfied thinking he'd have to love his angel without expecting anything back from him ever.

And anyway, wasn't Love about not expecting anything in return? If it happened, cool. If not, well. Deal with it.

There was, however, something annoying to Crowley. With them belonging to two different sides before, that survival instinct had been entirely understandable for the demon. But now that they were finally free of any obligations and pretenses, he felt that their relationship should have evolved somehow. Not necessarily in a romantic direction, but at least to another level of friendship? Ridden of the distance that two make-believe arch-enemies ought to maintain between one another for the sake of appearances. 

So. Crowley did not know if Aziraphale simply did not feel the need for their friendship to evolve, or did not realize it could, or didn’t dare allow himself to make it evolve (or worse, didn't care). 

If only Crowley could read the angel. He never thought he’d think it but: if only he’d send him a sign!

Crowley exhaled tiredly, his two hands on his kitchen’s countertop and his head down.

‘Let’s just. Sleep on it.’

Crowley’s human form managed to slither to the bedroom, and into the bed.

He allowed himself a few more minutes of wallowing in self-pity when a thought occurred to him. 

If he'd been human, he would have said ‘Alexa’ and ‘Play Yseult ‘Indélébile’ for me’. But since he’s not, and since he had invented cloud-based voice services and he knew that no one should use them, and finally since he did not know how to properly pronounce ‘Yseult’ and ‘Indélébile’, he just miracled playing the song on Youtube (Premium*, but for free. *He invented that too if you must know) with a twitch of his index finger. 

There it went. The piano notes rose, soon followed by a warm voice.   
  


> ‘ _Tu sais très bien que je vais céder_
> 
> _La première_
> 
> _Tu sais très bien comment me faire vriller_
> 
> _La première_
> 
> _Tu connais la chanson, ne me mens pas_ ’

  
Crowley let himself drift away, carried by the melody and the voice of Yseult. 

And, he did not know exactly how it happened, but it seemed that his subconscious caught up with some of the lyrics based on what French words was left to him from his seventeenth century escapade in Versailles and Paris. 

He opened one eye. 

‘Wait.’

He replayed the song with another twitch of his finger. 

He wasn’t THIS rusty with his French after all he decided, he would focus. 

The whole song unravelled once more, filling in the empty, square room. Only this time he _listened_. The beautiful ‘shape’ of the song soon revealed a beautiful _core_. Full of emotions, full of feelings, full of… 

‘Love.’ He whispered.

When the song finally ended, a peaceful, respectful and most welcome silence filled the room, only interrupted by Crowley’s breathe strained by his beating heart. 

He launched the next song by Yseult, ‘Bad Boy’…


	3. Him, The Fire Consuming Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is, Yseult's lyrics are translated for you in this chapter.
> 
> If you'd like to listen to the 3 songs featured here, have a look at these links:  
> \- Bad Boy (bdsm representations, but nothing too graphic): https://youtu.be/12SFWkBWeHM  
> \- Indélébile: https://youtu.be/qq4jWEK-qYs  
> \- Corps: https://youtu.be/XbQpgFsJ_Co

Aziraphale did have to sort out a few things in the shop.

But mostly his feelings, if he had to be honest.  
For a few centuries now, he'd felt like he'd been sitting on his very own personal Pandora box that he- oh... had been dreading to open. The thing was that that box was trashing now. Like a suitcase overstuffed with wild, feral cardigan jumpers.  
And truth be told, it was hard to carry on pretending day in day out that whatever existed between him and Crowley was only air.

It happened (because God had a sick sense of humour) that the song ‘Bad Boy’ by Yseult was playing in Aziraphale’s shop.  
While listening to the first notes, he caught himself remembering Crowley’s visit earlier today (or was it yesterday already? Summer nights pass so quickly…)  
Anyway, he was already being lulled by Yseult’s enthralling voice. She was soothing, but she also knew exactly where to push to make your heart hurt like Hell. And the angel loved it...

Crowley’s figures entered the shop in front of his mind’s eyes.

> ‘ _Quelqu'un frappe à ma porte_
> 
> **Someone’s knocking at my door**
> 
> _Je sens mon pouls qui s'accélère_
> 
> **I feel my pulse accelerating**
> 
> _Le temps s'arrête_ ’
> 
> **Time is stopping.  
> **

Aziraphale smiled a very, very sweet smile. The one he always tried to hide from his demon.  
  


>   
> ‘ _J'ouvre la porte, c'était l'amour_
> 
> **I open the door, it was Love**
> 
> _Oui c'était lui que j'attendais_
> 
> **Yes, it was the man I was waiting for**
> 
> _Lui, le feu qui me consume_ ’
> 
> **Him, the fire consuming me**

  
Aziraphale’s throat constricted a little. He cradled a glass of pinot noir, sweet and dark, intoxicating just right and cladding his spirit in a lovely fog. 

Oh boy. He was hopelessly lost.  
  
  


> ‘ _J'suis tombée amoureuse d'un bad boy_
> 
> **I fell in love with a bad boy**
> 
> _Me posez pas de questions_
> 
> **Don’t question me about it**
> 
> _Que ça vous plaise ou non_
> 
> **Whether you like it or not**
> 
> _On s'aime_ ’
> 
> **We're in love with each other**

The rest of the song was, oh so sad. He did inspired Yseult for, at least, the first part he reckoned. And then she decided, with great intelligence, to sing about abuse and death. He loved what she did with it, she was so empathetic with her fellow human beings. She was a fantastic artist. 

Then, soon, 'Indélébile' played.   
  
  


> ‘ _Indélébile est ton prénom_
> 
> **Indelible is your name**
> 
> _Tu sais très bien que je vais céder_
> 
> _La première_
> 
> **You know very well that I will be the one giving in**
> 
> **First**
> 
> _Tu sais très bien comment me faire vriller_
> 
> _La première_
> 
> **You know very well how to fuck me up**
> 
> **First**
> 
> _Tu connais la chanson, ne me mens pas'_
> 
> **You know the song, don’t you lie to me**

In his room, while replying the songs over and over, Crowley realized that he now did know the song.  
  
  


> _Tu connais mes envies et j'en passe et j'en passe_
> 
> **You know my desires and so on, and so on**
> 
> _Tu sais très bien que je vais céder_
> 
> _La première_
> 
> **You know very well that I will be the one giving in**
> 
> **First**

‘Oh angel, if you _knew_ that I was lost for your cause so long ago...’

He whispered, hands hiding his eager, soft mouth in humility.   
  
  


> Je ressens dans mon corps, dans ma tête
> 
> **I feel it in my body, in my head**
> 
> _Je le sens dans mon cœur, dans mes veines_
> 
> **I feel it in my heart, in my veins**

They both closed their eyes a few miles away from each other, looking like two beacons of light calling to one another across the warm Summer night.   
  
  


> Ton parfum est ancré dans mes draps
> 
> **Your perfume is lingering in my bedsheets**
> 
> _Ton prénom est indélébile dans mes pensées_
> 
> **Your name is indelible in my thoughts**
> 
> _Tu sais très bien comment me faire rêver_
> 
> _Tu sais faire_
> 
> **You know very well how to make me dream**
> 
> **You know how to do it**
> 
> _Tu sais très bien comment te défiler_
> 
> _Tu sais faire_
> 
> **You know very well how to run away**
> 
> **You know how to do it**

Aziraphale knew he did. He was a coward, a being of love not able to face his own overwhelming feelings for Crowley. He kept running and he kept becoming more and more tired doing so. Could he actually die from it? Humans did. He was meant to love, he was ‘born for that purpose’. Surely, this would prove to be lethal at some point for him.

> Tu connais la chanson, ne me mens pas
> 
> **You know the song, don’t you lie to me**
> 
> _Je connais tous tes vices et j'en passe et j'en passe_
> 
> **I know all your vices and so on, and so on**
> 
> _Tu sais très bien que je vais replonger_
> 
> _La première_
> 
> **You know very well that I will be the one giving in once more**
> 
> **First**

Somewhere in London, a flat’s door did not slam. Because a demon miracled himself softly in front of an angel’s bookshop. 

> Je ressens dans mon corps, dans ma tête
> 
> **I feel it in my body, in my head**

The door was actually open, but Crowley simply stood in front of it. Peering at the sweet image of his angel bathed in soft electric lights.  
  
  


> Je le sens dans mon cœur, dans mes veines
> 
> **I feel it in my heart, in my veins**
> 
> _Ton parfum est ancré dans mes draps_
> 
> **Your perfume lingers in my bedsheets**
> 
> _Ton prénom est indélébile dans mes pensées_
> 
> **Your name is indelible in my thoughts**

To Crowley’s horror, the angel’s form sagged down with the last notes of the song.  
It did something awful to the demon’s very core. Nobody should feel as miserable as Crowley did, and certainly not an angel, not his angel. 

He softly opened the door that ‘clicked’ in the silence. For some reason, no other song perturbed it, not even the usually familiar song of the bell. 

Aziraphale’s head shot up in the direction of the door. And his face was unreadable, and hopeful? At the same time. 

The next song in the angel’s playlist (he had sorted out playlists) started playing, very softly.   
  
  


> Le corps nu sur le sol
> 
> **Body naked on the floor**
> 
> J'me fais du mal depuis des années
> 
> **I’ve been hurting myself for years**

The demon closed his eyes in pain, and two tears fell down his cheeks.  
When opening them, he saw that the angel was still sitting far too far away from him to his liking

He started talking. ‘Angel…'

> _La main sur les yeux_
> 
> **Hand on my eyes,**
> 
> _Pas envie de la retirer,_
> 
> **I don’t want to take it off yet,**

‘You miracled it didn’t you?’  
  
‘Did I?’ The angel asked with a half, tired smile  
  
  


> _Y a pas de place pour les faibles_
> 
> **There’s no room for the weak**
> 
> _Y a pas de place pour les regrets_
> 
> **There’s no room for regrets**

‘Yesterday, in the flower shop. I don’t know how you planned it but you knew I would be there, and that's when you first told me.’

There was a silence in return.

‘I- I felt like I’ve told you a hundred if not a thousand times over… But I never managed to make it reach you somehow…’

‘So you found a way.’   
  
  


> _Le cœur sur le sol_
> 
> **Heart lying on the floor**
> 
> _Relève-toi faut pas déconner_
> 
> **Get-up, don’t fuck-up**

‘I thought that. If she was touching your soul the way she touched mine, I could finally manage to express it to you. Make it reach you.

The angel looked at his hands. ‘So I… I poured a little bit of my feelings in her mind, just to fuel her inspiration.’

> _'J'ai ces bruits dans ma tête et j'aimerais que ça cesse mais en vain_
> 
> **I’ve got those noises in my head, and I’d like to stop them, but there’s no use**
> 
> _J'ouvre un peu les yeux, des couleurs, des photos me reviennent'_
> 
> **I open my eyes, colors, and pictures come back to me**

‘You did.’

’And she did all the rest. She exceeded all that I expected. She’s just _that_ talented.  
I could not express all that I-‘ he did not finished his sentence. ‘And she- she expressed it in ways I could never have. You see, I am made for Love. But, speaking it? It requires another set of talents…’

The demon was speechless. He understood now. 

‘And you knew that I would 'discover' her at some point. Even though you helped.’

Aziraphale looked into his eyes, and nodded. 

The demon couldn’t believe to which extent the angel came to in order to confess his feelings.  
He could hardly believe to think it, less say it: his _Love_ for him.   
  
  


> _Tous ces bruits dans ma tête faut que ça cesse_
> 
> **All those noises in my head, they need to stop**
> 
> _J'ai perdu la tête_
> 
> **I lost my mind**
> 
> _Où est le chemin de ma maison?_
> 
> **Where’s my way home?**

Crowley finally found its way home. He did so long ago actually. He just went back there today knowing that he was just given the key…

The demon slowly, carefully approached the angel. Very softly so as not to make ripples that would scare his lover's Love off. Aziraphale watched him getting closer, expectantly.  
Yes, with so much expectations written on his features that it made Crowley's heart hurt.

The demon sat on the arm of the armchair the angel was sitting in, right by the table with the huge bouquet of roses. The only witnesses to this divine scene.

The angel eyes never left the demon’s, face turned upward toward their twin lights like a sunflower with the loveliest, brightest petals.

Crowley reached down with his lips to water a long standing heart drought. His mouth softly caressing, at first, the lips of the angel. He inspired his sweet breath, softly sucked-in a bit of his vitale force before giving it back to him a thousand times over.

The angel felt like an iron cage was inside his breast, but actually making it forced to expand. It was just too full feelings. Too full of-

and he reached out.   
  
The angel rose. The angel rose to his feet with a kiss to his demon. He made Crowley stand and obey him with a force and a tenderness that shook them both. Aziraphale crowded the demon against the table while Crowley tried to steady it with his hands, having a distant memory of a bouquet of flowers sitting over it. He did so without stopping to answer the angel’s kiss. Aziraphale’s hands were now by Crowley’s ribs, and there was just no use trying to stop the crystal vase from shattering and the roses and water to spill and spread over both the table and the floor. There was so many roses. 

Then, it was suddenly just easier to simply kneel on the shop’s floor, their knees barely keeping them upright anymore. Crowley’s legs were literally _shaking_.

Once on the floor, they stopped kissing for a moment in order to look into each other’s eyes, lips swollen, breath intertwined and ragged. Crowley traced a circle of caresses with his left thumb on the angel’s neckline. His other hand cupping the angel’s jaw. He felt like he was holding the most precious thing that had ever existed, and he felt humbled by it.

Then, he made his angel lie down, and he lied with him. Every inch of their bodies touched as they were both lying on a carpet of roses that, for some reason, did not hurt. Not a single thorn torn at their flesh, the flowers knew they ought not to interrupt this long postponed moment.

‘I-’ the words died in Aziraphale’s throat, eyes welling-up. 

‘I know, angel.’

‘I just love you _so much_ ’ and that was the rawest, truest, most divine I love you that was ever worded.

It gave Crowley the effect of a slap in the face, and a punch in the guts. 

‘Me too, angel. Always have been’ he may have said the last bit of his sentence directly into the angel’s mouth.   
  
  
The day was slowly breaking into the room, the sun reaching at high angles first. Tiptoeing around the shop as it did not want to break the moment either.

It felt like its light was warming-up a different atmosphere in the two-hundred-year old bookshop. And if it felt like it was outshined by something much brighter, it did not feel jealous at all. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, that's my first attempt at writing an original fanfic and I kindly appeal to your patience and understanding while reading it :)  
> I'm not used to writing as I'm 'normally' more of a visual artist, but apparently this story needed to be expelled from my mind.
> 
> I hope you will forgive my very probable spelling mistakes and potential conjugation errors as this fic was not proofread. Don't hesitate to point out what could be improved if you spot anything amiss. Many thanks!
> 
> I will insert further notes where needed so you may have additional information about the various inspirations that helped me build the story. I'm thinking mostly about Yseult's songs that will, of course, be properly linked in order for you to listen to them and enjoy their sheer beauty. 
> 
> The French artist's 'New Opera' performance for Colors inspired this fic that I am very happy to share with you. It naturally lead me to also rely on Tristan and Yseult's legend to develop different themes around wasted love, pain, and hope. I promise that this story has a happy ending!
> 
> I also hope that this fic will give you the desire to discover what Yseult does. She's a beautiful and talented black woman whose songs I keep falling in love with.
> 
> On a note unrelated to this story, I may post Good Omens illustrations as well on this AO3 profile in the future. But if you'd like to have a look at my Tumblr (https://lesliedraws-lilithcurses.tumblr.com/) or Gumroad 'shop' (https://gumroad.com/lesliedrwslilithcrss) feel free to!
> 
> Also the illustration is mine :) I did not intend it for this fic, but well!


End file.
